


Heart Break

by TheXWoman



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Study, Daemons, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Story: A Scandal in Bohemia, Tragic Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-30
Updated: 2010-08-30
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:39:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5928856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheXWoman/pseuds/TheXWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hearts can break. Yes. Hearts can break. Sometimes I think it would be better if we died when they did, but we don't."<br/>-Stephen King, Hearts In Atlantis</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Break

He slept beside her. The muted light of London through the window cut the shadows of the night, and she watched him sleep, his nose pointed towards the ceiling, his mouth open ever so slightly, and now and again he would snort a breath that would break the silence like a crack of thunder through a storm-addled sky.

Whenever he snored, she would find herself involuntarily clutching the corner of her pillowcase. Next to her, she would hear the feathers of her constant companion ruffle. Often, the noise would surprise them so that small squeak, not unlike that of a startled rodent, would escape his beak.

It hadn't been a habit of her husband's that she had taken much note of before. Not before they'd been to Barcelona. Not before she'd read that newspaper article. Not before Irene Norton had dropped her heart on the stone floor of a Spanish villa and watched it shatter, like glass, the shards too small to ever rebuild it back into what it once was.

With stealth and care, Irene slipped from the warmth of her bed and fetched her dressing gown, pulling it around her shoulders as she tiptoed to her wardrobe. She opened the doors carefully, and in the darkness grappled at the clothes she recognized as her own. Her arms filled with shifts and dresses and trousers and braces and blouses and anything she could get off of hangars without a fuss, Irene rushed to the doorway of the room and slipped out.

Adrastos, her ever loyal soul, followed her without question, landing impossibly quietly on a hallway table as he watched her struggle to close to the door of the room from which they had so desperately escaped.

Irene made her way to the sitting room, dropping her clothes haphazardly upon a stiff-backed chair. The large crow perched on the back of the chair and watched her with a cold stare, his black eyes emotionless and unmoving as she retrieved her suitcase from a closet and began shoving her clothes into it without thought.

“You loved him,” Adrastos commented, his feathers ruffling as he stretched his wings and adjusted his stance.

“One cannot love when they no longer have a heart.” Irene didn't look at the crow. Her constant companion through life, it had once been beyond her reasoning to ever imagine her life without him. She knew it would still be folly to do so, but she often wondered what the world would be like if one's own soul was not there to remind one, constantly, of how much it hurt to be alive.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Adrastos chastised. “If you had ever wanted to be here, you would not be in such desperate hurry to depart.”

“When have you known me not to be in a hurry to depart?” The clothes were a mess, a jumble inside of the battered suitcase, and when Irene pushed down on the lid, it wouldn't quite latch. Huffing a sigh, she threw it open and began a quick rearrangement.

“You did falter in the thought of running, once.”

“Well, yes, for did I love Godfrey then.”

Adrastos' beak swung open. His wings rose and he danced sideways across the back of the chair, and Irene knew he was laughing at her. “I speak not of Godfrey, Irene. You know you have loved one man, and you know it wasn't him. If it had been, your heart would be breaking now, instead of breaking the day you read of Holmes' death.”

Irene paused, her hands suddenly no longer in a hurry, and she gripped a white slip fervently in her fists. She wanted to quiet him, because he was telling her what she could not bear to tell herself. The memory of reading the article still burned so clearly in her mind. The paper had been in Spanish, but Irene hadn't needed to be fluent to understand. His name was written clearly in the article, a name she had written with her own hand years before. She knew that name, backwards, forwards, inside and outside. She held that name so close to her heart, she often forgot it wasn't her own.

And when that name ceased to be, Irene feared that she did, as well. She was broken by the news that the one man she had respected, the one man she had put before all others in intelligence, fierceness; the man she had seen fit to outwit only in the hopes that one day, she would have the opportunity to do so again... That man was gone forever. Stolen by the wind that blew across the mouth of Reichenbach Falls and somehow, the end of his eternal spirit was enough to remind Irene how easily she had fallen herself.

Sherlock Holmes came to his end, locked in mortal combat with his most sinister of foes. Irene Adler came to her end, by slipping a gold ring upon a finger and promising she would run no more.

Irene finally managed to force the suitcase shut, and pulled on a pair of trousers and a blouse before donning one of Godfrey's old jackets. She completed the ensemble by placing a hat on her head, tucking stray strands of hair up under the brim, and Adrastos watched her stoically from his position. He would not question her actions, anymore than he would request her to stay. Once Irene had poised herself, suitcase in hand, the crow flew to her shoulder and perched, his head held high as he examined the sitting room of their comforting flat one final time.

Both woman and daemon took the same deep breath of preparation, and Irene turned and slipped out the front door. She started for the staircase, her suitcase in hand.

“You can't expect to hail a hansom at this time of night,” Adrastos stated. He was quite fond of stating the obvious.

“No need. We shall walk.”

“And where shall we walk to?”

He knew the answer as well as Irene, because there was no answer. Just a longing. Just an aching need to be free, to once again reclaim a spirit which had been lost. Irene's heart had broken the day Sherlock Holmes died, but she hadn't the gentle comfort of dying, too. Instead, she lived on, knowing that the only way she could once again tolerate every single breath of every empty day was to fill it again with meaning, to make it overflow with adventure, to once again allow herself to live rather than just survive. And she would do that by honouring Holmes, by turning herself back into the woman that - for a fleeting second lost in thousands, for a single heartbeat almost forgotten by a broken heart - had loved him.

“Irene,” Adrastos pushed again. “Where are we going?”

“I don't know, Adrastos,” Irene Adler said, pulling the door open and walking out into the brisk, cold night beneath the dark London sky. “But I suspect we will know when we get there.”


End file.
